


A drawing apart of curtains

by HourofWakening



Category: Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: M/M, it's short! it's indulgent! I don't care!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23867596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HourofWakening/pseuds/HourofWakening
Summary: "a drawing apart of curtainsa fall of veils"from Denise Levertov, "Air of November"
Relationships: Dumac/Indoril Nerevar
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	A drawing apart of curtains

It was evening, still warm and humid in Mournhold, when Sotha Sil opened the portal in Nerevar’s study and sent through, by way of message, a blue-and-gold butterfly. When the answer came from Rjakanzel, in the form of a large grey moth with mottled wings and antennae that winked in the lamplight, Sil caught it in his fist.

“I need its wings for a potion,” he said to Nerevar, with a grimace of apology, and gestured to the glimmering portal. “See you tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Sil,” said the hortator, in a hurry as always, with one leg already in Rjakanzel. “Send word if you need me!”

He closed his eyes as Sil’s serious face faded from view, breathing in deeply against the rush of panic that always accompanied the unpleasant twisting and shaking feeling of portal travel, like he was water sloshing around in a jar. A moment later, it was over and he was stepping out into a different study, this one dimly lit and smelling of brass and incense.

Dumac had been pacing, restless and impatient, picking a book off a shelf here, perusing a page or two before setting it down again, pausing to adjust the brightness of a lamp there, now fussing with the clasp of a bracelet, and pouring himself another glass of wine, which he almost dropped when Nerevar shimmered into focus in the halo of the portal. He still wasn’t used to the shock of seeing people appear and disappear from those horrid gaping maws, to which the Chimer seemed very attached, and still less used to the sight of Nerevar, golden and smiling in the lamplight of his study, there for no purpose of state but simply to be close to him.

“Nerevar, _qazarak_ ,” said Dumac, as the portal faded into thin air again, “do come in.”

He stomped across the room – Dumac wished he could be persuaded to trade in his chitin-and-leather boots for a pair of Dwemer chaurus-silk slippers when in Rjakanzel, but Nerevar thought he was joking whenever he brought it up – and, clearly feeling bold that night, plucked the wine glass right from Dumac’s hand to take a large sip.

“I already poured one for you,” he said, reaching up to sink one hand into the hair at the nape of Nerevar’s neck.

“But yours was right –” Dumac cut him off with a kiss, hard and tasting of sweet Summerset Isles wine. Nerevar was still smiling as he pulled back, having succeeded in getting exactly what he wanted.

“How was your day?”

“Terrible,” he complained, unwinding Nerevar’s scarf. “There was such a ferocious argument in the senate over a new grain tariff that I’m afraid a glass of wine was thrown across the table…”

“No! Tell me you weren’t the one who threw it,” said Nerevar, laughing, as he pushed Dumac’s richly embroidered robe off his shoulders.

“I’m a king. I always behave impeccably.”

The arch expression on Dumac’s face only made Nerevar laugh harder – and made Dumac roll his eyes as he led him by the hand to the door.

Later that evening, Nerevar lay back on a mound of pillows with Dumac’s head resting on his stomach, cheek to hip, stroking his hair away from his face. It was braided in its customary Dwemeri style, in dozens of full-length braids with a glazed ceramic bead at the end of each one, so that every turn of his head made a pleasant clinking sound. Some of the braids were beginning to come loose, freeing wisps of dark hair to curl around Nerevar’s fingers.

“Dumac?”

“Yes?” said the king, voice slow and relaxed.

“How do you do your hair like this? I’ve always wondered.” Now Dumac opened one eye to give him an incredulous look. “You should teach me.”

Dumac thought back to their early meetings – Nerevar simmering with indignation in a muddy field; Nerevar catching his eye across tables covered with maps and drafted legal documents, and winking; Nerevar in Rjakanzel, that first time, not shying away beneath the frosty stare of dozens of Dwemer eyes, watching and evaluating the Chimer general as he stood at the podium – and wanted to laugh out loud at the idea that, the whole time, Nerevar might have been pondering the intricacies of his hairstyle. Instead, wishing not to hurt Nerevar’s feelings, he simply smiled and pushed his head up into his palm, to coax him into resuming his petting.

“I really wouldn’t know.”

“Why not?

“Nerevar, you can’t imagine that I do this myself?” said Dumac, gesturing with a languid hand toward his head. “I have _hairdressers_.”

“Oh…” Nerevar frowned, deep in thought. Of course, he could imagine Dumac being tended to by a hairdresser, preening as he sat at his dressing table as if presiding over a debate in the high senate chambers.

“I’m sure you’ll have them too, once you’re king.”

“I don’t mind doing it myself. I hate all that fuss.” Nerevar had slid the bead off the end of one of Dumac’s braids and was now unravelling it, both to see how it had been done and to run his fingers through the strands. “I can do braids in the Ashlander style.”

He continued undoing the braids, so that Dumac’s hair fanned out over his chest. It was black as obsidian and luxuriously thick.

“My mother taught me. She would braid my sister’s hair while I watched, then do mine. Her hair was brown, not as dark as yours, and she would weave beetle shells all through it… She didn’t have a gentle hand with the comb. I can remember my sister crying, when she was little, because ma had tugged at her hair too hard. I always sat as still as I could so I could go back out to play…” Nerevar deposited his handful of beads onto the floor with care and patted Dumac’s shoulder. “Sit up. Do you have a comb?”

Dumac obliged, but eyed Nerevar with exaggerated wariness as he pushed himself up to sit cross-legged on the bed.

“Yes, it’s at the dressing table. Just don’t tug so hard I cry, okay, Nerevar?”

“Don’t worry,” he assured him, “I’ll be gentle.”

He was gentle, surprising even Dumac who knew how gentle he could be, and he hummed an unfamiliar tune as he brushed out the old braids. They had been worked tightly and close to his head, so Nerevar massaged Dumac’s scalp with his free hand as he worked, relieving the pressure. Propped up by the solid warmth of Nerevar’s bare chest against his back, Dumac felt his eyes closing once again. Though he was accustomed to the sensation of someone else doing his hair, with Nerevar it was different; this easy giving, and the care with which he touched him, made Dumac’s chest feel tight.

“One day my mother took us to meet our grandparents – our family – among the Urshilaku. Actually, it was a very long journey, but we went most of the way on the silt strider. You still haven’t ridden with one of those, have you?” asked Nerevar, more of an aside than a question, as he divided Dumac’s hair into sections. He began with brisk yet careful fingers to pluck out strands at his left temple for the first braid. “Well, I remember the caravaner was a typical Chimeri peasant, bitter as ash until he’d downed a whole bottle of greef while at the reins, and then he sung the most heart-wrenching songs you’d ever heard for the rest of the journey. My sister and I laughed, but ma was crying; she just sat there with tears rolling down her face…” 

He moved from the left side of Dumac’s head to the right, weaving a succession of fine braids that joined in the back to make one large braid. Dumac was uncharacteristically pliant, allowing Nerevar to turn his head this way and that, and letting the sound of his voice flow over him in the candlelit room. He had never before heard Nerevar talk so freely of his childhood, or his family, and he was almost afraid to speak, lest he shatter whatever feeling had seized the hortator.

“When we were getting close to the outpost nearest the camp, ma made us change into our best clothes, and she made us sit still while she did our hair, a bit like this, only much neater. I remember she had some small bones – from cliff racers, maybe, all smooth and white – to pin at the back, right here.” Nerevar pressed his thumb into the braid he was now working at the back of Dumac’s head. “When we got off the silt strider, we were in the middle of an ash storm, and we had no chitin helmets, so we wrapped ourselves up in scarves like dumplings. I’d never been in an ash storm like that…”

How long they sat like that, in the warm quiet of the king’s bedroom in the middle of the night, with Nerevar working as if some muscle memory alone, and talking softly the whole time, not bothered from the lack of response from Dumac and knowing that he hadn’t fallen asleep only because with one hand he was tracing absent-minded patterns on Nerevar’s calf, Dumac couldn’t say. Finally, he set down the comb.

“There!” he said, giving his thigh a light slap. “You look like you’ve just walked into Gnisis from the ash-wastes.”

In the hand-held mirror, their two faces were ringed in gold, Nerevar with his chin resting on Dumac’s shoulder, smiling, eyes glittering and just a little wet, and Dumac thought his mirror-self looked dazed, overwhelmed by the strength of his feeling.

“Thank you…” Nerevar’s voice was soft, small. “For listening – and, I mean, you look…”

“I know,” said Dumac, just as softly, and he set down the mirror and turned in Nerevar’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> "a drawing apart of curtains  
> a fall of veils" 
> 
> from Denise Levertov, "Air of November"


End file.
